A/N Oh you lot. You're just lovely, do you know that? Thanks for all of the awesome words of encouragement. As always, they spur me on when my writer's block steers me otherwise.

Bit of a naughty M-rated chapter for you now to make up for my tardiness. To recap, Peter has just told Assumpta that he doesn't work for Father Mac anymore. But she knows, as well as we do, it was never going to be that easy...

"So who'd you work for then?"

It wasn't the response that Peter had been hoping for. Assumpta's stare didn't waver as she pronounced her words, unsettling and exciting the Priest in equal measure.

"What do you mean?" he uttered eventually, finally finding the courage to speak.

"Well" Assumpta began, "if you're not answering to Father Mac, then to whom do you answer?" With a wink, she offered conspiratorially, "or do you have a direct line to Him upstairs?"

Flummoxed by her question and even more perturbed by her manner, her companion stuttered, "Yes," followed by "No." Eventually he reasoned, "Look, I wanted to be honest with you. Let you know my plans."

"Oh, that's grand isn't it? A moment of truth amongst all of these lies."

"I've never lied to you."

"You've never been honest."

Peter pushed himself up from the couch and walked behind the bar. Pouring himself a large whisky, he uttered quietly, "I've tried… I'm trying."

Fighting an eye roll, the publican joined him at the other side of the bar. "I'm listening."

"What I told you about mum," he began, earnestly. "What I told you about her getting better, it's all true. But she'll never be the same."

"Oh, no?"

"She needs live-in support. She can't look after herself anymore – she barely could before. " Peter picked his next words carefully. "She needs her family."

"And that family would be you." Assumpta cursed herself for her uncaring words, but her blood was boiling inside.

"I'm all she's got."

"Your sister?"

"On her way to the airport as we speak." Peter searched his mind for some words of consolation – for a way to make everything okay. "Look, this doesn't have to be it, you know."

"Oh no?"

"We could keep in touch."

"Keep in touch?" Assumpta pronounced each word skeptically.

"I don't want to lose you."

"You never even had me!" The publican's roar seemed to shake even the glassware of the pub. Attempting to regain her composure, she added in a whisper, "If I was ever yours to lose, you lost me when I left England. When you decided this wasn't worth the effort."

"I never said that," he replied tetchily. "That's not what happened."

Neither spoke for a while, each immersed in the hue of their own drinks. Assumpta collected their glasses, signalling that their evening had come to an end. She moved to speak but immediately thought better of it. After a beat, she finally settled on her words.

"It didn't work when there was just a wall between us. What chance do we have when it's an ocean?"

Assumpta didn't linger downstairs long enough for a response – she didn't expect one. Following her pronouncement, the landlady ascended the stairwell, switching off every light on her way.

For a while, Peter remained alone in the darkness, quietly wondering when things had become so complicated. He had to put his mother's well being first, that much was certain. As much as it pained him to admit it, the Clifford matriarch would not welcome his career change immediately, if at all.

Peter remembered the pride in his mother's face when he took his first Mass – her amusement at his first christening. Peter's vocation was especially important when his father passed away. His mother relied on her younger son, much more than she ever had before. It was no secret; Mark was always the favourite. She tolerated Angela and humoured Peter but her eldest child was and would be forever, the apple of her eye.

However, Peter's vocation – his position as the only true practicing Catholic among the siblings – gave Mary-Lou a sense of pride, something that was all but lost following Mark's incarceration.

This would kill her. A voice inside of Peter gave him pause. It would break Mum's heart if you were no longer a Priest.

Angela was right – and so was Assumpta. He had to remain a Priest. He had to go through with his plans and return to his original post at St Andrew's in Manchester.

He had to. At least for the time being. At least until his mother improved. And while he was a Priest, he couldn't keep Assumpta in his life. It wasn't fair – on either of them.

Father MacAnally had been told of his intentions, now all he had to do was give his final Mass at St Joseph's in the morning and leave. No – that was callous. He'd take the Mass, have a drink with the parishioners, say a proper goodbye and then leave. Either way he was gone.

Peter's eyes lingered on the stairs. His legs, firmly rooted to floor, knocked nervously against the curved lip of the bar.

Leave. Leave now… he willed them, but still his focus on the darkened steps didn't waver.

"It's time to go." A low whisper left his lips. "You need to leave…"

It was the right thing to do – it was the only thing to do – but every fibre of his being fought against it. Peter felt a hot tear roll slowly along his cheek.

Get it together…

With effort the Priest rose up from his stool and headed quickly to the door. However, just as he reached for the handle, the hairs pricked up on the nape of his neck. His arms goose-fleshed.

Someone was there.

"You're still here?" Assumpta.

Peter turned immediately. Anguished and tear-strewn, her face was still as lovely as ever. "I was about to –"

"Do you think… that maybe" Assumpta interrupted, letting go of the breath that she didn't know she'd been holding.

"What?"

The publican pursed her lips, momentarily at a loss at what to say next. "It's your final day…" she added eventually, her eyes downcast.

Peter crept forward hopefully, his heart beating wildly through his chest. "Final day?"

"…of your holiday." Assumpta's gaze finally met his, begging for his comprehension, willing him to understand.

Peter's expression went blank. Surely she wasn't asking? Surely she didn't want…

"I know that it wouldn't mean anything. I understand that you have to go…" her voice threatened to break into hysterics. Did she really have to spell it out?

She needn't have worried, for the next thing Assumpta felt was Peter's mouth on hers, his hands making fistfuls against the cotton of her dress.

He pulled away just once to utter breathlessly into her hair, "You could never mean nothing to me. You're everything…" His voice trailed, his mind racing elsewhere as she slid her cool hands along the small of his back.

Suddenly they were at the foot of the stairs and then they were against them, exploring one another's form with each extremity, every sense that hadn't completely taken leave yet.

"I love…" Assumpta began to form the words – those very dangerous words that every action, every movement of hers screamed, but her traitorous mouth was quickly silenced by Peter shushing against her lips.

"Don't," he begged, his eyes wide with warning. "Please…"

She understood immediately, of course she understood. There was no room for melancholy in this moment. You don't want to mix sadness and regret with an ecstasy as pure as this.

Assumpta bit her lower lip to keep the words from tumbling out and with fresh tears felt Peter push against her entrance once more.

His access was easy – it always would be. It was as if every moment, every argument, every touch, had led up to this very point. She fit him like a glove. Perfectly and completely, surrounding him with an irrepressible heat that ignited a passion that the Priest had never known.

It was almost too much – and it very nearly was – as Peter tried to commit every minutia to memory; her smell; the exact curve of her breast; the sounds she made as he entered and re-entered, gradually gaining and maintaining at the pace that she dictated.

But then suddenly something shifted. Her groans became more rasping as her hold on him began to tighten. Peter grinded to a halt, his fear supplanting his need for absolution.

"Assumpta…" he warned as he felt her rock impatiently beneath him. "Assumpta!" he begged again, feeling something at the pit of his stomach unfurl.

"Let go," she implored, pushing him even deeper inside her. "It's time to let go."

Suddenly everything fell into place. The world ravelled and unravelled in equal symmetry. A whimper that Peter didn't know he'd been holding escaped as he finally gave in to his release.

"I love…" he seemed to cry out, immediately superseded by Assumpta's wry warning "Careful" as her own orgasmic sighs mingled blissfully with the ether.

"But I do." Peter uttered eventually, resting his brow on the crook of her neck. "I can't remember how not to."

Assumpta smiled, although she felt no mirth. This was never going to be easy, she admitted inwardly. However in that moment, wrapped tightly by Peter's arms, it all suddenly felt worth it. The pain that existed and the torture still to come.

It was all okay because tonight they had each other... and five and a half precious hours left of their holiday.